In Pectore
by Arithanas
Summary: SUMMARY: 1642, Blois. Sometimes a hard event is necessary in order to comprehend how emotional invested we are in a person. Athos centric. DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet's works are public domain.


NOTES: The Latin segment is Mattew, 8:8 (Latin Vulgate Bible). The translation is at the end.

In pectore  
>by Arithanas<p>

_A faithful and good servant is a real godsend;__  
>but truly 't is a rare bird in the land<br>_~ Martin Luther

Nevertheless he returned late in the morning, Oliver awoke and tried to give his best presence. He had been roving the last few days, and the desire to see those who were part of his life had awakened within him. He scrubbed up, grumbling because the jar next to the basin was ice cold. It seemed odd that his valet had not taken the precaution of tempering the water, and setting aside a set of clothes, as it was his habit. Perhaps he had not been notified of his master's arrival.

Outside his door, he found Raoul, leaning against the wall with a smile that warmed the cold winter morning. They exchanged greetings, hugs, and news about the time they did not see each other. Hearing the occurrences of a nine-year-old about horse riding and philosophy made him smile, Raoul was thrilled with his learning, and Olivier thought that this love for enlightenment was a good sign. Side by side, they descended the stairs, and went to the dining room in search for breakfast.

"Where is Grimaud?", Olivier asked Charlot when the servant put the plate in front of him.

The dismayed expression of the old server left him confused. Something must have happened during the three days he was traveling alone. There had no sense carrying Grimaud to Orleans, when it would be more useful to make him stay to oversee the management of the house. Grimaud did not seem at his best, he did not want to tire his loyal valet, and he sincerely believed that the Breton needed vacation of caring for his master twenty-four hours of every day.

Charles was taking too long to answer that simple question, and, against good sense, Olivier said: "Well?"

"M. le comte...," Charlot hesitated again. "M. Grimaud is indisposed".

"In which way?" he wanted to know, and could not help feeling that his brow furrowed, he was concerned that the information was not delivered quickly.

"M. Grimaud is not well. There was an accident, in the old mill. The surgeon has already seen him, and..." Charlot could not keep his eyes still, it was as if he was seeking for support. There was none. "We have to trust in Divine Providence, M. le comte."

While Olivier was beginning to understand the information, he wondered why the hell no one had told him when he arrived in the morning. It was the kind of news should give it to him as soon as he returned. His eyes fell on Raoul, who was busy breaking some bread, avoiding his gaze. His concern became frank anxiety. If Raoul knew and had not informed his godfather, things did not look good.

"Why it was not informed to me before, M. le vicomte?"

"Grimaud is not just Grimaud," the boy said with a shrug, as if he tried to minimize the blow. "M. le Comte so greatly appreciates him, and I do not know how to break the news. Charlot thought this way would be better."

As usual, everyone felt entitled to withhold information to avoid hurting him. Good intentions, no doubt, but this method never failed to make him angry.

"What did happen?" Olivier demanded, ignoring the food before him. He no longer had appetite.

...

Blaisois was the cause, Olivier should suspected it.

Grimaud had nothing to be done in the old mill they were dismantled piece by piece now that they had built a new one. That old structure unstable and could not stand the rigors of winter. Before leaving, he had forbidden his servants to approach it. Workers had to work in groups so that everything is done safely.

Raoul was in Blois that day. Blaisois was free, and, when he had not appeared by mid-day meal, people began searching the castle and the surroundings. Nobody knew how Grimaud had found the lost boy, who had sought refuge in the mill. Blaisois tale was a rigmarole and not very informative, the only thing clear was that he had returned running to Bragelonne.

How long was Grimaud under the rubble?

Was he exposed to cold?

Did he had broken bones?

All these questions were sensible, he made them, these and many others, but now that he was at the doorway he could not be forced to take the step to enter the room in the servants' quarters. The atmosphere smelled of blood, sweat, and suffering. From where he stood, Olivier could see the body of his faithful Grimaud, bedridden, under sheets showing fluid stains. He was surrounded by his peers, everyone tried to make him feel better, he was well guarded; but, that was not his place, Olivier could not hang around in his bed, displaying his concern. He was the master.

His hands clung to the jamb of the door until his knuckles stood out on the soft kid leather of his gloves. Below they would be white, for sure. He was desperate to come to the bed, to make sure that, in fact, Grimaud had not a broken bone, as he had been assured.

"If he is not badly hurt, why the fever?" Olivier said, controlling the tone of his question; trying to make it seem simple curiosity.

"Blood poisoning, M. le comte," Charlot said behind him and resorted the whisper that is used around the sick. "That could kill the best among us."

"Call the surgeon," ordered Olivier, forcing himself to break from the door. "I want to hear what he has to say."

...

Harassing the surgeon would not help to improve the health of his valet, however, it made him feel better. The physician was patient with his examination, and tried to explain the situation. The old man said that the beam that had prevented Grimaud from being crushed by debris had hurt his organs; that small wounds had bled on the inside; that foul blood poisoned his lungs... Finally, it became clear that they could only hope that Grimaud's body was strong enough to endure the fever. When the fever break, he would be out of danger.

Once the surgeon was gone away, Olivier sat in the salon. His favorite chair was no longer comfortable. He was thirsty, for the first time in years. Grimaud never let him get thirsty. In the previous eight years, he had never had to ask for a glass of water or a cup of tea. Actually, what he wanted were those bottles in the cellar, a dozen Chambertin of very good vintage. The idea of getting drunk until he lost consciousness was so attractive that immediately he felt a hole in the stomach, and Olivier nervously ran his hand over his lips.

"Does the master need anything?" a soft voice asked, and frightened him.

Olivier was sure that it was an effect his troubled conscience, but a few seconds he hallucinated Grimaud's voice, the same of so many years ago, from the times when his Breton was a boy who could not keep his mouth shut. He had to fight the tears that came to his eyes before facing the person who asked the question. Blaisois was standing beside his chair, trying to sound adult despite his ten years.

"No," Olivier answered without understanding that pantomime. "Thank you, Blaisois."

"Master, I am your new valet," the boy said, unperturbed by the absence of expression of the master of the house. "I am replacing M. Grimaud for everything."

_Blessed innocence of children_, Olivier thought, knowing that no one could ever replace Grimaud. Blaisois did not know that the position was too big to be filled by one person; and definitely there were some aspects of the work for which he was not interested in this boy's services. The idea was abhorrent enough to close that hole in his stomach and replace it with pure revulsion.

"M. Grimaud need not replacement," Olivier told the boy, trying to control his anger, longing and disgust. "And, if that were the case, only I can designate the person who should do his job."

"But I have to do it!" Proclaimed the boy who seemed to have trouble controlling his tears. "It's my fault that M. le comte has no one who care for him!"

"Blaisois, do you take me for a maiden?" he asked with an icy tone before which grown men would have run.

"No, but... but..." Blaisois achieved babbling before start crying like the child he was.

Olivier looked at the boy, shook his head, and sighed. He always forgot that Grimaud was not living solely for him, now had its own share of responsibility. With the awkwardness that involved embracing a child who, on the top of all, was not yours; Olivier tried to comfort that youngster that meant so much to his valet, and who carried so much guilt.

...

Olivier had tried, really tried, but before nightfall had gone to the servants' quarters. He promised himself he would be a quick visit, almost by obligation. He ended up ordering the women to change the sheets and clothes of the sick man, it was almost indecent that no one had thought of these basic comforts. Grimaud faltered something when he saw him, but Olivier could not understand it, although he recognized the dialect: his valet spoke the Breton language in the moments when he lost control of his mind. The master of the house suspected that, in all Bragelonne, only he knew that little detail.

"Don't worry," Olivier ordered, sitting on one side of the cot. "You'll come out of this, and I'll not let you forget you're a bloody idiot."

More strange words spilled on too dry lips, Olivier realized that there was no point in trying to reason with him. Grimaud was unable to smile dismissively at his gibes; he could not make a sneer of defiance; he could not even make a sign to tell him how to ease his suffering. Ironically, when when his valet talked, Olivier knew what silence was.

The servants, by instinct or calculation, had decided that Grimaud would be well next to the master, and had left them alone. Olivier took one of the rags and dipped it in the bowl of cold water, that was the least he could do. Olivier realized that it was strange the way his mind worked. While passing the wet cloth on those facial features that he knew so well. How many times things had been different? Grimaud trying to keep him alive and worrying about him, despite his virulent and assiduous attempts to end his existence. So much life shared. So many loud laughs, so many silent tears.

Olivier did not want to think about what his life would be if Grimaud was not strong enough to withstand this latest act of stupid heroism or altruistic insanity, it was difficult to know the difference. Olivier would never admit it aloud, but he was terrified. Now there was only one thing to do, since he was not a surgeon nor a priest, and was something that had not done since the night Raoul was begotten.

Humbly, knowing that he was not entitled to implore, Olivier de la Fère bent his knees in the dirty floor and prayed with all the faith that was in his heart.

"_Domine non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum_ _sed tantum dic verbo et sanabitur puer meus*_" recited the count, once he finished praying, leaning his head on the humble cot.

...

Faith and patience was the motto of the next week.

Faith and patience. Olivier had never been inclined to practice either, but it was all he had and had to take advantage of it. Raoul and Blaisois became the balm that allowed him to remain sane while waiting, the boys had grown overseed by Grimaud, and now that he was unwell, they had no other refuge than the Count, and that one would be meager. Raoul was more accustomed to take refuge in his shadow and did everything in his young had to distract the Count from his constant concern; Blaisois needed a shorter leash, but he was more docile. Olivier occupied his time in dictating letters to the boys and correcting their handwriting, carefully selecting words of great difficulty, and racking his brains to find what to say in these fictional letters without falling into the domestic tragedy.

One afternoon, when Olivier's mind had begun to wander back to the dozen of bottles, the stable-boy's daughter the ran up to the salon and, without much ceremony, made an announcement at full voice.

"He is lucid," she said. The Count forgave her immediately.

Olivier wanted to be thirty years younger to dash towards the servants' quarters with the boys, but it was not possible. He had to content himself with walking at a moderate gait. When he reached the threshold, Olivier just put his hands against the jambs and looked inside, trying to hold the smile at the sight of an almost suffocated Grimaud under the weight of both children.

"Let him breathe," he ordered an authoritative voice, "have you forgotten that his lungs are injured?"

Grimaud used his right hand over the shoulder Blaisois. The signal was weak, but understandable: _You have dark circles_.

Olivier was satisfied with raising an eyebrow: _Whose fault is it?_

Grimaud attempted a sneer as he nodded to Blaisois: _as if that were possible_.

Olivier put his hand on his forehead and give a couple of taps on his mane: _I was worried_.

Grimaud's hand rubbed his shirt-clad chest, as if to relieve pain, but actually, he told his master: _I am moved_.

"Raoul ask Charlot's wife to bring something to eat," ordered the Count, shaking his head. "Our good Grimaud needs to recover quickly before someone else pretend to pocket his place."

...

* Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof; but only say the word, and my servant shall be healed.


End file.
